


Our Little Secret

by BritishTraveller



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Blow Jobs, M/M, Mental Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritishTraveller/pseuds/BritishTraveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland is nineteen. You're supposed to have fun and be free when you're that age, right? Wrong. Arthur is a patient at Ashcliffe Psychiatric Hospital, a place where fun and freedom is hard to come by. With a corrupt doctor and a harsh past, nothing is easy in Arthur's life... But what happens when his old doctor mysteriously reappears with a plan to save Arthur?<br/>- HAITUS -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arthur and Doctor Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Little Secret
> 
> Chapter One - Arthur and Doctor Jones

"You're a crazy little fuck, aren't you?"

Doctor Jones' voice dripped with venom. His calloused hands were buried deep within Arthur's thick, dirty blonde hair as he harshly thrust into the latter's swollen mouth. Arthur wanted so badly for it all to stop. He was getting dizzy and his vision was blurring due to the lack of oxygen. Doctor Jones was hurting him again, and he always dreaded the two-hour sessions three times a week. Fat tears rolled down Arthur's face as the doctor once again degraded him.

"Oh, fuck. You're good with your mouth, Artie. I'll fucking give you that." He gasped, white starting to take over his vision as he came close. "No wonder…you're good." A deep, hearty groan came from the doctor's mouth as he came down Arthur's abused throat, his hot fluid shooting to the back. "What with all the practice you had with your father." The doctor panted, getting his breath back. Now that he thought about it, Arthur might need some oxygen, too. "There, you little slut." He said as he slid his now-soft member from the smaller one's mouth, making a small pop. Doctor Jones ruffled the messy mop of hair on top of his patient's head and smirked as Arthur gasped loudly; he wanted so desperately to fill his small lungs to the brim with the oxygen, the same oxygen he was deprived of not many moments before. "What do you say, whore?"

"T-thank you, D-doctor Jones…" Arthur whispered. His throat was so sore, why did the doctor do this to him? His doctor, of all people. The one person in the asylum he was supposed to be able to trust. There was no way in Hell that Arthur would even consider trusting Alfred Jones. No way. Definitely not after everything the demon Yank did to him.

"What? I can't hear you, Artie." Alfred hissed, his hands once again fisting the younger's hair as he dragged him upwards, only a couple of inches away and below his own face.

"Thank you, Doctor Jones!" Arthur repeated, louder this time, yet not too loud. The Doctor constantly reminded Arthur that if anyone on the floor ever heard his screams or his shouts, he would be taken far away. He would personally get Arthur sent away; away to a place with no escape. No asylum; nowhere to go – a place where people would hear his screams, hear his shouts, could hear him begging for mercy, but would not help him. "Thank you, thank you!"

Alfred smirked, happy with today's outcome. Two hours well spent, if he did say so himself. He grinned lopsidedly, his pearly whites gleaming in the light and practically blinding Arthur. "Did you enjoy yourself, Arthur? I know you did." He ruffled the English boy's hair rather roughly and zipped his black suit pants up before sitting back down in his chair. "You'd better leave now. Don't want anyone getting suspicious, do we?" Arthur shook his head no. "Good. Now get out. I'll see you on Friday."

Arthur wiped away his salty tears with the smooth heel of his hands and wiped his mouth. He felt dirty. As Arthur was let out of the Doctor's soundproof office, Alfred cleared his throat, making Arthur look back at the blue-eyed devil. "Oh, and Arthur? Don't forget; this is our little secret."

Ivan, the big lean Russian orderly, was waiting outside for the patient. If a doctor needed help while with a patient in a session, the doctor would have to simply press a panic button located underneath their desk. Ivan had a bleeper, as did the rest of the orderlies, so if anything serious did happen, he would be at their aid straight away.

Ivan, however, passionately hated Doctor Jones with the intensity of a thousand suns. He was American – for starters – and there was just a way about him that Ivan disliked the moment he had met the doctor. He was arrogant, cocky, demanding, and ruthless and always got what he wanted. Ivan did not like that. It did not do well to be a spoilt brat, and that is what the American was: a spoilt brat. Ivan sighed and smoothed down his white uniform. What was taking Arthur so long? His session ended ten minutes ago!  
Just as he was about to knock on Doctor Jones' door, it buzzed, which signaled that someone was about to come out. The Russian stood straight and waited for Arthur Kirkland to come out. Once he did, Ivan smiled softly – though a little childishly – at the boy before fixing him in a straitjacket (he was a big man, he could do by himself) and escorting him back to his cell.

Arthur inwardly sighed once Ivan took the straitjacket off him and did not put up a fight. He was too tired for that; too bored. He usually fought against the restraints. Well, when he first arrived at the asylum he would. That was three years ago, and Arthur was nineteen now. Doctor Jones had only been Arthur's doctor for the past year at the Ashcliffe Psychiatric Hospital, and that one year was enough to last a lifetime. Hell, the first couple of months were enough!

Arthur missed his first doctor.

Doctor… Damn, what was it again?

Doctor… Doctor Bonnefoy!

That was it.

Doctor Francis Bonnefoy.

Arthur missed Doctor Bonnefoy so much; he was nothing like Doctor Jones. He wasn't sadistic, American, nor was he spawn of Satan. No; Doctor Bonnefoy was gentle, kind, softly spoken, never raised his voice and certainly did not abuse Arthur. Arthur smiled softly as the doctor's image was once again in his mind.

His shoulder length blonde hair that was always tied up with either a purple, blue or red ribbon. His wise, understanding and captivating eyes were an incredible shade of blue: cerulean, a lovely shade, Arthur thought. They were nothing like his forest green ones.  
They were so incredibly bright when you considered the doctor's profession. It must have been rather hard to listen to mentally unstable patients all-day: screaming, rambling, giving the silent treatment… All of them were things that could eventually turn the doctors mad, too. The endless nights that Arthur had spent awake, lying on his hard bed, as the Lithuanian across the corridor, Toris, would scream blood-curdling screams. He would scream so loud and for so long that the day after, he would not come out. Even his own boyfriend, a Polish boy of the same age named Feliks, would be uncomfortable the day after.

Arthur often wondered what happened to his French doctor. Why had he left him? Had he not cared? Yes, Arthur knew that Doctor Bonnefoy would not have had the foggiest about Arthur's next doctor (not the German substitute doctor he had for half a year), but that still left Arthur wondering day after day. Where had he gone? Would he come back? What would it be like if he had not had Doctor Jones? What if Doctor Bonnefoy had stayed and not left Arthur in the hands of a sadistic rapist? What if?

"Urgh. Not again." Arthur groaned when Vash, a Swiss man in his late thirties-early forties, started yelling about gunshots. Vash had previously served in the army and during a war, his best friend and colleague had died trying to save him. Since that day, Vash continuously heard the sound of guns cocking and firing, explosions… He'd scream, and although Arthur pitied the man to no end, it was really bloody annoying. Soon, his shouts awoke other patients who started shouting and screaming. It was like Hell on Earth.

After a full hour, Arthur realized he would be getting no sleep and decided to talk to the fairies that perched themselves on the side of his bed. Tink, Ella, Belle, Luke and Lucy were his main - and only - friends. Well, his longest friends. The fairies had always been a part of Arthur. Ever since he was but two years old. He faintly remembered them then, although his childhood was but a bit of a blur. He remembered Flying Mint Bunny. Oh, that cute little thing! He was Arthur's friend, too. He hadn't seen him in a while, though.

He hadn't realized how late it'd gotten until he looked out of the small - really small - window in Arthur's room. There weren't many windows in the patient's rooms; not many of them were stable enough for it, but for some reason, they thought Arthur was.

That, or they were just taunting him. Giving him a slice of what life could be life outside of this mental institute. Out of the asylum. Out of the hospital. Arthur sighed. As much as he missed the outside world - having the wind blowing through your hair, the rain hit your face in cold yet pleasant splashes, the sun beaming down on your body - he had nothing out there for him. There was literally nothing. No family, no friends. At least, no real ones. And it was all Arthur's fault... If only... If only he had not been born. Yes. If he hadn't been born, then he wouldn't be here and his family wouldn't be dead. Everything was Arthur's fault. Always. At least, that is what he heard from his Father day in and day out. You're pathetic, Arthur. A good-for-nothing! All you're good for is a rough fuck. Nothing else. No-one could love you. Hell, I certainly don't love you. Arthur briefly wondered what it would be like to have someone love him.

No one would want to touch filth like you. Doctor Jones' would spit. His words spun through Arthur's head same with the words from his father. They made him feel worthless; so, so worthless.

Who did he have?


	2. The Beilschmidt Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Little Secret
> 
> Chapter Two – The Beilschmidt Brothers

Ludwig Beilschmidt stomped down the long, white corridors, huffing along the way. He had his brown satchel thrown across his upper half; the strap hung from his right shoulder and sat on his left hip, bouncing slightly with each of his strides

"Yo', Lud!" a voice nearby called, not even half as powerful as his own. Ludwig could near the others' trainers as they squeaked down the corridor. Were Converse even appropriate for the workplace? "What is it, Gil?" Ludwig asked cautiously, stopping and turning to his lankier brother. He ran a large hand through his short, slicked back blonde hair and sighed. Everywhere was white and smelled so chemical – it was giving the German a headache. The other male soon caught up; he was smirking playfully and panting slightly.  
"You sure walk fast, Lud." The albino chucked, "You could even beat that Italian kid, Feliciano."

"Don't, Gil. Please." Ludwig groaned, rubbing his temples with his index and middle fingers. "I've had a rough day; I just want to go home and get into bed." Gilbert nodded, shoving his own hands into his white coat pockets.  
"Same here. Fourteen hours a day really gets to you."

Ludwig forced a small smile and shifted his bag slightly. "Yeah. I've worked eighty-five hours this week alone… Look, brother. I'm sorry, but I have to go." The elder brother nodded, making a mental note.  
"Okay. I need to finish some work here and then I'll be going too. See you later!"

Gilbert smiled lopsidedly and waved with his right hand before turning down the corridor again, hoping to catch Doctor Héderváry before she took leave.

Ludwig watched his brother go after the Hungarian woman and picked up his pace; he was not staying any longer than he had to. The place was full of nutjobs, to put it bluntly. Even some of the workers were of their rockers. It pained Ludwig that he was aware of the goings on in the hospital – he wanted to help, he really did, but there were so many corrupt doctors; too many. The only way he could help get rid of said doctors would be if he got confirmation off the patients. Of course, a lot of them were too nervous or scared to say anything. Ludwig prided himself on the fact that the two Beilschmidt brothers were not corrupt in any way. Talk of the Devil, Ludwig thought. Doctor Jones' voice echoed through the halls, sounding closer and closer with each quick step. With his paled face and sweaty hands, Doctor L Beilschmidt rushed through the reception area, hoping to avoid confrontation with the American doctor. Ludwig passed the two receptionists, Lili, a beautiful girl in her late teens from Schaan, Liechtenstein, and Natalya, a pale yet also beautiful girl from Minsk, Belarus. He signed out before nodding and muttering a small, "Goodnight." to the two ladies; the German then pushed the doors open, thankful that it was slightly warmer night outside than usual. 

Elizaveta sped down the corridors of Ashcliffe Psychiatric Hospital, briefcase and files in hand. Elizaveta was twenty-nine years old, originally from the outskirts of Budapest, Hungary, and moved to the States (Ohio, specifically) at the age of fourteen with her parents. She was currently working on the difficult case of Roderich Edelstein, a paranoid Austrian musician. It was hard work, being a psychiatric. The long hours, the extra work, considerable amounts of overtime. It was definitely not a job for the faint hearted. Every patient was different; sure, a lot of them had similar symptoms of mental disorders, but that didn't mean they didn't have a personality. Hell, some of them even had couple. But Elizaveta pitied a lot of the souls. Many of them were abused as children, the abuse following them into later life. Roderich was a similar case. Elizaveta remembered when she was a fan of the Austrian pianist; back before he was her patient. Nobody had any idea of his past, nobody. A large majority of the time the man would be silent, acting mute. He could go weeks without speaking; only communicating through glances that Doctor Héderváry stole. That was why she had his file in her hand. Again, the doctor was working overtime. A lot of the time, the pressure got to the woman.

Every doctor had to see their patient a minimum of three times a week. Each session had to be at least thirty minutes long, although few doctors exceeded that time limit. Each doctor had approximately ten patients each, some with more and some with less. Altogether, there were seven doctors in the hospital. Not a lot, but enough. The hospital wasn't that large anyway.

Elizaveta sighed. She pitied the new doctors, she really did. They had no idea of the pressures they were to face... "Liz!"

The woman turned to the voice, knowing exactly who the owner was. Gilbert. "Ah, Gil-"

"Hey, Eliza!" Gilbert said cheerfully, smiling and waving. As the albino got closer, Elizaveta could see the dark bags under his red eyes. "You got any plans, cutie?" Elizaveta frowned.

"You look tired, Gil. Why'n't you go home and get some rest, yeah?"

Chuckling, the other doctor shook his head. "Sleep can wait. You can't. I wanted to talk to you!" He raised a hand and ran it through his white-silvery straight hair as he spoke.

"Hm." The Budapesti avoided eye contact as she smoothed down her simple white blouse and knee-length pencil skirt; when she looked back up, she noticed those red eyes, burning with passion. "Well I'm busy now, Gil. I'm taking Roddy's case home; it's eating me up! I'm so close now, I know I am."

Gilbert's face twisted in confusion, "Roddy?" He sniggered to himself as her face went white, "Is that what you call Roderich?"

Playfully, Elizaveta punched her friend's arm. "If you want, we can go for a quick coffee tomorrow; I think I have a half hour to spare."  
Her plan miraculously diverted the other conversation and the male flashed a toothy grin, "That's brilliant...amazing...perfect!" He smoothed down his hair until his hand reached the back of his neck, where he held it there while he made a fool out of himself further. "I- yeah! That's great." he nodded, "I can't wait."


	3. Sticks and Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Little Secret
> 
> Chapter Three - Sticks and Stones

Elizaveta smiled softly as Gilbert opened the door to her office. "Hey, Lizzie!" Gilbert poked his head in, feeling the need to wave too. She giggled and waved back, wiggling her fingers. "Hello, Gil."  
The albino gestured with his head towards the corridor, "You free to get a coffee from the canteen?" The Hungarian eagerly nodded in reply. She stacked her paperwork to the side of her desk and placed her pen next to it gently. Once she deemed her desk neat enough, she rose from her seat and put her hands in her white lab coat. "Shall we go then?"

As the two giggling doctors exited Doctor Héderváry's office, an extremely angry looking Doctor Jones was stalking the corridor. Gilbert looked up just as the other doctor collided into his chest. "Move out of the fucking way, would you?" Alfred but growled fiercely. "Jesus Christ, I can't do anything without someone getting in the way." Elizaveta furrowed her brow, her beautiful smile fading as she recognised the rough voice.

"Oh; it's you."

"What did you say?" Jones spat back, shooting a daring look her way.

Gilbert put his arm around the woman as though to protect her, "Hey, hey!" he intervened, "Leave her alone, Jones. She didn't do anything."

"I don't give a shit, Beilschmidt." Alfred said. "Move."

"No. Just walk around us, Jones." Gilbert argued.

"Don't make this difficult..." The American warned, standing his ground.

"Your petty threats don't affect me, Alfred. They may with your patients but not with me. You're corrupt and everyone knows it, they just won't do anything about it because they're afraid of you. Well, guess what? I sure ain't."

"Whatever, I don't care for this childishness," the doctor rolled his eyes, "just get out of my way."

The pair shared a glance and moved aside for Doctor Jones. Said man nodded at them and carried on his way; his pace quickened and it was only when he reached the doors at the end of the corridor did Elizaveta realise where the male was headed: to the patients' rooms.

Gilbert's voice broke Elizaveta out of her trance; "My God, what was wrong with that jerk?" She quickly shook her head and pulled him away, deciding to ignore the American doctor. Anyway, there was nothing to worry about.

...Right?

Arthur held himself on the floor of Doctor Jones' office. Every word Doctor Jones said to Arthur was like a dagger in him. Every profanity that came out of those poisoned lips was like an extra stab. Every time the doctor laughed, every time he grinned at Arthur's misfortune - it hurt. It was like salt to the wound. Nothing could make his life better, Arthur decided. Nothing. Not even if Doctor Bonnefoy came back, but heh. Who was he kidding? The old doctor would never come back. He'd never come back to Arthur. He'd never come and save him. He just didn't care.

Arthur let out a choked sob as he rocked back and forth in Doctor Jones' room, trying to dearly to ignore the older man's screams. He was in the corner with his knees up to his chest and his arms up defensively in front of his face. "Please," he whispered, "stop." The doctor ignored the boy and kicked Arthur's rib, which made him fall onto his side. "Please, Doctor Jones..."

"What, Arthur? What could a fag like you possibly want after everything I've done for you?" The doctor spat, his nose upturned at the quivering boy. "Get up."

Arthur sniffed and quietened for a moment, giving himself a second to prepare. "I said, get up." Alfred growled again. His patience was wearing thin. "Do not make me ask again." At that, Arthur practically jumped up. "Good boy." Alfred praised, though it sounded like he said it rather condescendingly. The doctor brushed his index and middle finger through his slicked back hair, a new style he thought he'd try for the day, and sighed. He sat down in his office chair and rested his chin on the palm of his hand, smirking and watching the patient wipe his eyes and nose with his forearm as he stared at his feet. "Now, how are you feeling, Arthur?"

The rest of the session carried on normally, much to Arthur's surprise. It was strange, how Doctor Jones' mood could change in that of an instant. One minute he would be shouting, yelling at the Briton to shut up and be quiet, and the next he would be smiling sardonically and asking how he was feeling. In times like that, when he asked how Arthur felt, it was almost as though Doctor Jones was a real doctor. A real doctor as in one that would care for the patient, one that would ask about his feelings and go deeper into his past.

The only downside to that was, of course, that Doctor Jones never stopped there.

No, he never stopped getting a kick out of watching Arthur squirm. The doctor would play it sweet for a while; asking how he felt, why he felt that way; for how long. Then, he would link it to something in Arthur's past. Jones would get the patient so ruffled up he didn't know what to do. Arthur would become lost; lost in his own memories with no way out. Jones would get the patient angry, or sad, or even desperate. Arthur would become frantic and eventually have a panic attack. Jones just loved to mess with peoples' heads.

It was just a little after Arthur's session when Ludwig came barging into Alfred's office. "Jones." the German spat; the name felt disgusting on his lips. His whole face turned into one of distaste when he even heard the man's name. Alfred craned his neck around to the door and he smirked at the other, loving the way Ludwig's cold blue eyes were piercing his very soul. "What is it, Beilschmidt?"

"This is not simply a game for a rich young boy to play." Ludwig growled, squaring up to the American. "You do not play with the patients as though they are pets, you should know this! The people here have problems, you know that. This hospital is for the criminally insane, Alfred. If you are not comfortable here, then leave. It is not good for the patients and it certainly does not reflect well on you."

"I have no idea what you mean, Ludwig." Alfred gasped, "And I have no idea where you have gotten such accusations!"

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "You're not fooling me, Jones."

"Nah, didn't think I would." the other replied, kicking his feet up and resting them on his desk. "But what are you gonna do about it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:/ Hello! BritishTraveller here; thank you so much if you're reading this - it means you made it through the first three chapters! [wow!] I'd love to hear what you think on OLS, so please don't hesitate to leave a comment and tell me anything you think needs changing or whatever you like.


	4. Where Angels Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Little Secret
> 
> Chapter Four - Where Angels Play

There's a light in my room. It flickers on and off. It's like a ritual. When the big, stocky orderly Ivan comes in in the morning with one of the nurses, he whacks it to make it stop. THWACK! And it does stop. But once he's gone, it starts again. It's above my bed so when it is 'lights out' and I have to sleep, I can't; I'm like the living dead: half of me is here, real and physical. The other half is away, away in some sort of dream like state where I'm not in control anymore. The glow is a blue-white and the light itself quivers every couple of seconds; it could drive a man insane. Well, if he wasn't already, that is. There's a constant buzzing too; a buzzing that's way too loud and yet way too quiet at the same time.

I don't like it.

I don't like anything about this place. I don't like the walls. There are four square, padded off-white walls that are covered with hand prints and unidentifiable smears, and with the faintest little blood splatters that you can't see very well because they've been washed out of the fabric and have blended into the grey they've become. The other walls in the unit are different, that I've seen. The hallways are an off white too, but they're littered with numerous hefty glass doors. At the side of the glass panels are name plates with the patient's information on: name, date of birth, doctor and, sometimes, even a warning sign. Mine looks like this:

Arthur Kirkland

23/4/1994

Doctor Alfred F. Jones

DANGEROUS

I don't know why they said I'm dangerous. I'm not. I'm not the one who killed my father. I'm not the one who killed my uncle. I'm not the one who killed my brothers. But they don't believe me, the doctors. Say I'm too cuckoo to even function and deserved everything I got.

The cell across from mine is Vash's, the Swiss man I mentioned before; to the left of mine is Toris'. Toris is a good lad. The cell to the right of mine is Matthew's. Matthew suffers from major depression and anxiety disorder; he's a nice lad too. It's a shame he doesn't talk much. No one really talks to me but him, Toris and Vash. Down the rest of the hall are some other patients, although I don't know a lot of their names. If you keep going down the corridor, go through three sets of double doors, turn right and then down the hall, you'll come across several wooden doors. These are the doctors' offices. Black and white plates stating doctors' names litter each one. Dr. Ludwig Bielschmidt, Dr. Gilbert Bielschmidt, Dr. Yao Wang. I don't like it down there... That's where Doctor Jones is, along with the other doctors, of course.

I remember when Doctor Bonnefoy was down that end. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

"Arthur," David Kirkland purred, "Daddy's got a special job for you..." The man glanced over to his youngest son, who was stood in the doorway of his father's study; the five year old's eyelids were low and droopy, for it was a lot later than the little boy's bedtime. The child wore small, blue and red ankle socks with rockets on and had his pajamas on too: a long sleeved cream shirt with blue shorts. Arthur held his toffee coloured teddy bear, Mr. Teddy, in his small right hand and smiled weakly at his father. "What is it, daddy?" the boy inquired, excited and yet wary of his father at the same time. It was then that Arthur realised his daddy's friends were in the room too. Mister Franklyn, Mister Debham, Mister Parrish, Mister Norman and even his uncle Allistor all sat in separate dark oak arm chairs with his father. The six men formed a circle with their seats and David ushered his son over again. "You'll find out, Artie. Just come over here and meet daddy's friends. We aren't being rude, are we?"

Not liking the elder's tone of voice, the youngster quickly scurried over to his daddy and stood before him. Self consciously, Arthur pulled down the bottom of his shorts and glanced briefly behind him at his father's friends; only to find they were all staring at his behind. The little boy whipped his head around to look at his dad again, "N-no, daddy. I'm sorry." Arthur apologised sweetly, sticking his bottom lip out too. He didn't want to get his father angry.

"It's alright, son. Where's your mother?" David asked, knowing full well that his friends were watching his son and himself.

Arthur chewed the inside of his lip and looked down, playing with the end of his shirt as he thought, "Out, daddy. She went out." The young boy quickly glanced up, emerald eyes meeting six other pairs. Arthur felt a lump come to his throat as it dawned on him that his mummy wasn't there; she wasn't there to save him or protect him. It was even worse when his stomach sank as he heard his daddy ask, "Why don't you come and sit on daddy's knee, hey?"

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

"Come on, honey. Take your meds, it's only a couple of pills; they're to make you better!" Katyusha, the charge nurse of the hospital, pleaded. "Arthur, don't make this difficult, please." Behind her was Ivan, glowering down at the blonde haired patient. Finally Arthur agreed and swallowed his pills, careful not to make eye contact with Ivan as he did so, and gave an awkward half-smile at Katyusha. "Ah, well done, Arthur! Thank you for not struggling today." She chirped. Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed before flopping down onto his hard bed again. He really didn't want to go to Doctor Jones' office, not today.

But at the same time, he did. There was a small part of Arthur that wanted to go to Alfred: a small part that was pulling him like a magnet, almost as if he had to go. As much as Arthur would hate to admit it, a little voice in his head was telling him that he loved him. A small, innocent little voice was echoing through his mind, 'You love him.', 'You're dependent on him.' 'You love him.'.

And that was the one thing Arthur hated.


	5. Behind Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Little Secret
> 
> Chapter Five - Behind Blue Eyes

"We need to get you a new light don't we, Arthur?" Katyusha asked softly, watching as Ivan hit the flickering light with his fist. Thump!

The blonde man was silent as he watched the towering orderly bang the light above his head. He was sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over with small beads of sweat dripping down his sickly pale face. The poor boy flinched every time the Russian man whacked the source of light. Ivan, in turn, glanced at Arthur from the corner of his steel-blue eyes before moving away and turning towards Katyusha, where he stopped and lent down and whispered something into her ear. The head nurse nodded and smiled at Arthur. He was looking worse by the minute and his appointment with doctor Jones wasn't far off... Could he afford to miss one session?

...Probably not, no. Not when Katyusha knew what the doctor was capable of.

She sighed, "Okay, sweetie. You just take your pills and you'll feel as right as rain! After that we'll take you to the showers and clean you up, alright?"

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Deep sky blue eyes scanned the canteen of Ashcliffe. Upon finding his target, the blonde man sauntered over, a smirk etched onto his handsome face. The entire room was white, several members of staff were dotted about and a noxious aroma of coffee could be smelt as you passed each one. The harsh fumes made the man cringe slightly, as he had grown to dislike coffee after drinking to much of it here in the unit.

The other man he was looking for was perched on a plastic orange chair at a small wood laminate table, cradling a folder and nursing a cup of instant coffee. The blonde's smirk broke into a grin and he had to hold himself back from running over to the secondary male and jumping him. Instead, he decided to casually sit down opposite the coffee drinker and rested his white-coated forearms on the table top, bending his head forwards and showing off his pearly whites in a grin as he did so. The brunette visibly frowned while reading his folder and glanced up, only to gasp loudly and rise from his seat when he noticed who it was. "Francis, my dear friend, you're back! It's so good to see you!"

The man nodded in response and rose from his seat too, chuckling as his oldest friend grabbed him and squeezed him tight. They parted, both grinning wildly as they sat down together, "You too, Antonio. It's been a while, huh? I'm sorry I didn't get into contact sooner... I had things to settle back home in France, you know?" He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "Things get so hectic when you're planning a funeral..."

"Ah," his friend started, but stopped when he couldn't find the right words; he paused for a moment, thinking it over, before he carried on, "I'm sorry about your mother; she was a kind woman. I shall miss her dearly..." another pause, "But what made you come back?" As Antonio spoke, a young couple came over and sat themselves down next to the pair - the male holding a tall bottle of Cola straight from the vending machine and the female holding a cup of tea and a Hershey's bar.

"Francis! What are you doing back here? We thought you'd finally gotten away!" The girl joked.

Francis smiled awkwardly and sighed once again before he realised what he had truly missed back home, "My friends are here and so is Arthur, of course! I couldn't leave him here, Liz, not the way he is. He's so vulnerable, so fragile... How is he, by the way? He's still here, isn't he?" Antonio nodded, but his expression wasn't nearly as eager as his colleague.

"Oh, he's here all right. He isn't ever going to leave." Antonio announced bitterly. He wasn't even looking at Francis anymore, but instead staring into his disposable coffee cup as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"What do you mean, my friend?" Francis laughed, "Gil's taking good care of him; aren't you, Gil?"

Gilbert shook his head at that, "Sorry, man. Had him taken off me in exchange for another patient and he got Jones." Both Antonio and Elizaveta nodded in agreement and watched Francis deflate,

"He hasn't been Arthur's doctor for a while now, Francis. He's got a new one; a bad one. Boy, the man's more corrupt than Nixon and Bush put together... I'm sorry, Francis, but you have no chance of getting Arthur back as your patient; not unless every other doctor petitioned for it or filed reports or something. He's Roma's favourite; he's pulled the wool too far over his eyes. There's no way, Francis; we're sorry."

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Alfred watched his patient through cerulean eyes. What is he thinking? Alfred wondered. "Arthur, come here." the doctor ordered, his once intent look replaced with an impatient and bored one. Arthur, in fear of provoking his doctor, complied. He shuffled over, sweat still dripping down his forehead and down his neck, and stood before doctor Jones. A smirk crept upon Alfred's face as a wondrous idea popped into his mind. "Drop to your knees and do something special for daddy, huh? Don't you want to impress him, give him a reason to love someone as broken as you?"

A cold shiver went down Arthur's spine at his disgusting words. Suddenly he felt cold and dizzy and the whole room was spinning out of control. It felt as though his mind was dancing and that only meant one thing: Oliver was coming out to play.


	6. Second Bite of the Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Little Secret
> 
> Chapter Six - Second Bite of the Apple

"I'm gonna get that little fucker next time." Doctor Jones growled, making his way speedily down the hospital corridors as he massaged his balls and his sore member.

"And which 'little fucker' would that be, Doctor Jones?" the Director, Roma, asked, a small smile on his face, "Not one of your patients, surely?" Alfred stopped dead in the corridor and tensed up at the other man's voice. Shit, how was he going to get out of that one?

"Of course not, Roma!" Jones laughed, "It was a... A mosquito bite, you see. Bastard bit me down there!"

"I see," Roma chuckled, "I too dislike mosquitoes. They're nothing more than vile little things with wings; all they do is pass diseases around to humans. If only the world were rid of them. But they're just little insignificant organisms, aren't they, Doctor Jones? They don't do too much harm overall, do they? They only help the world; we're overpopulated as it is. Think of them as tiny helpers." Doctor Jones frowned. He did have a point about insignificant organisms - there were far too many of those around these days.

"You're right, Roma." He smiled. Damn, would this guy just hurry up?!

"Of course I am," the elder chuckled back, "I'm glad to see you out of your office, Doctor Jones. You never come out much, you should relax more! You work far too hard. I'll see you around, okay? Goodbye!" Alfred nodded and waved the man goodbye before turning back down the corridor. He grumbled something incoherent and made his way into the coffee smelling cafeteria, brushing past countless colleagues he couldn't give two shits about.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

'Love of two is one, here but now they're gone. Came the last night of sadness and it was clear she couldn't go on. Then the door was open and the wind appeared... The candles blew then disappeared. The curtains flew then he appeared, saying "don't be afraid."'

To someone else, singing hard rock and heavy metal songs to get you asleep sounded like a stupid idea, but to Arthur Kirkland, it wasn't. He needed these songs to sooth him... They took away the disturbing images and memories that flooded his mind every night, every living and breathing moment when he couldn't focus on anything and even then they still came to him, still as scary and as daunting as they once were. His oldest brother, Declan, used to play rock music when Arthur was little. Blue Öyster Cult and The Rolling Stones were his favourite bands alongside Arthur and Aidan, but Arthur eventually went along the punk path in his teens and loved The Clash and The Jam.

Those memories of his brothers and their music were what helped Arthur. He wouldn't be able to breathe if not for them introducing him into rock music, it kept him going. Damn, he missed his brothers. All three of them... Dylan, the quieter of his three elder brothers, was only four years older than Arthur. Then it was Aidan... He had strawberry blonde hair bordering on ginger and he was eight years older. Aidan was a sheep. Not a black sheep like Arthur, oh no. Aidan was a sheep because he followed the eldest Kirkland son, Declan, who was another four years older. Declan had mousy-brown hair, and even though he tended to pick on Arthur sometimes, he knew when to stop.

The Kirkland brothers were a close knit lot. Declan, Aidan and Dylan comforted Arthur in one way or another, intentional or not. Never once did they stop their father or uncle Allistor from hurting Arthur, but they were always there when it ended, always there when Arthur was visibly shaking and crying and full of bruises and scratches. He was their baby brother, after all. Declan would order Dylan to go and fetch some plasters or an ice pack when Allistor got too rough. Then he'd order Aidan to grab a glass of water from the kitchen and if he bumped into their mother, Elizabeth, he'd have to recite a sorry excuse for why her little Artie, Deccie and Dy weren't there to welcome her home after a weekend away. It was all thought about thoroughly and planned, recited and learnt just in case mother did return when they hadn't quite patched Arthur up right.

And when they were done, Arthur with his heat patch or ice pack on his lower back or head and bandages wrapped around his waist to hide the already forming bruises shaped like their father's fingers, they would all sit in Declan's room, listening to his rock music that all four brothers adored until the youngest fell asleep and one of them would have to carry him to bed.

He missed that. That sort of innocence he once had, when he thought it was somewhat normal for his father to violate him in such ways, yet wondered why his brother's never got such treatment. They aren't as special as you his father used to say. But as years went on it turned from being special to being bad. You're bad, Arthur. You don't treat me with as much respect as you should; after all I've done for you, too! You deserve this. This is your life, boy. This is what you're meant to be! This is your destiny, Arthur. You're mine, alright? All mine.


End file.
